The Eleventh Hour
by Oh-Johanna
Summary: Spock watched the door swing as though in slow motion, unable to reach it, to stop it, and in those few seconds a myriad of scenes filled his mind of every conceivable possibility that might arise from being trapped in here, with her. And then the door shut. (Just Some Tropey Angsty Fluff)
Spock watched the door swing as though in slow motion, unable to reach it, to stop it, and in those few seconds a myriad of scenes filled his mind of every conceivable possibility that might arise from being trapped in here, with her.

.

.

And then the door shut.

The sound of heavy metal sinking into its rigid frame reverberated against the walls sending rivets of vibrations in all directions. The resulting onslaught of noise bombarded his ears and Spock flinched just as Uhura darted forwards, stopping just short of colliding with solid steel and tile. Her open hand curled into a fist that she rested against what had, moments ago, clearly been a door and what was now a wall as identical as any other around them.

A moment passed in silence and Spock watched the back of her head as she took a deep breath, turning her chin over her shoulder, her hair falling across her cheek. He had no answer to the question left unvoiced on her lips and so did not attempt to offer one.

Her eyes swept over the empty grey walls of their small cage. The room was no bigger than a studio apartment, and infinitely less welcoming from the lack of furnishings or windows. She ran the palm of her hand over the smooth tiles, feeling for grooves that would suggest an opening. He knew she would find none, but he did not dare interrupt the silence between them. Her approach that evening, the swiftness in her stride, the thin line of her lips, the tilt of her chin as she'd handed him the PADD, had been evidence enough that she was still angry with him. And all this had been _before_ they had suddenly found themselves trapped. Together.

"Right," she said, sweeping her hair out of the way as she knelt down and swiftly unzipped her boot.

Spock's brow disappeared beneath his hairline when she retrieved a small knife from within. Examining the wall again she adjusted the tool in her hand, scraping the dull edge of it lightly against the tiles. It made an unpleasant noise that sent involuntary shivers through Spock's neck and spine as she moved it back and forth. Eventually she seemed to find a place where the tiles became uneven and aimed the tip of it as best she could between them.

"That instrument is not a sufficient tool for this task," Spock said behind her, unable to remain silent any longer.

She fitted the end of the blade into the small crack without response.

"Lieutenant?"

"I'm not speaking to you right now," she said, the words pushed through her teeth as she muscled the knife farther.

That made him pause. Not solely because the statement itself was contradictory, but also because it's colloquial meaning was not lost on him. He was familiar enough with the particular bite in her tone to warrant further reflection but his mouth betrayed him by acting before sufficiently examining his options of response.

"I was under the impression you came here with the purpose of asking me a question."

She didn't answer right away, but shifted her weight, pressing harder into the handle so that it bent considerably under the pressure. He could see the muscles tensing in her shoulders.

"Yes, well, that question is now moot unless I can managed to get us out of here," she said. "And if that's the case I would prefer to – _oomph_ – work in silence."

She managed to chip part of the sensor lining on one of the tiles and a small piece went clattering across the floor. She didn't so much as glance at it and Spock mentally added this to his lift of repairs.

He spent a few minutes studying her, the way her elbows pushed backwards as she tried to maneuver the small knife. Her hair, pulled back tightly against her scalp, whipping across her back with each attempt. She was indeed agitated, and reasonably so, having been recently sealed into a small compartment with no means of escape for several hours. That was evident. What was not so evident, and what concerned Spock more than their current situation, was whether it was the confinement that had caused her ill temper, or the company.

Uhura kicked aside the broken piece of tile as she moved along the wall. Though Spock knew from experience that opening this door from the inside without a key was nearly impossible and that their extraction would almost certainly be determined by external factors, he could not reasonably say that Uhura's attempts were not a perfectly rational way to spend her time here, given that they had very little else to do. Still, it was an unnecessary expenditure of energy. He watched her a few minutes more before recognizing he was doing so and decided that it would be illogical not likewise make use of their time here to complete his original task.

The four identical walls of their surroundings were made, not from one solid material, but with hundreds of thousands of one-centimeter tiles placed end to end. He had so far counted a total of 477 that appeared to have faulty sensory units. As it stood, the simulator should not have been in operation and he would need to alert engineering of this first thing in the morning. Or as soon as they were released.

He placed his hands behind his back, studying the ceiling. It too looked as though it were in need of repair.

For some time there was no sound but the scratching and muffled curses as Uhura tried again and again to force her way out. When Spock had finished examining each of the remaining walls he found himself again watching her work.

In the hour or so that had elapsed she had managed to dislodge four more tiles, but had made no progress, it seemed, on discovering the exact location of the door. It was commendable that her efforts were no less vigorous now than they had been at the start, however futile.

She must have sensed that his focus was returned to her because after several minutes she spoke.

"What?" she asked without ceasing her ministrations.

"That is your fifty-seventh attempt to reset the lock mechanism of the door."

She palmed lower down the wall, sinking onto her knees, and carefully dug the knife into another notch. "Thank you for the tally."

"I assumed you had sufficient evidence to stop."

"Evidently not," she said.

The word was heavily accented in a way he was unaccustomed to expect from her and yet, over the last several weeks, had been experiencing with a growing frequency. He had yet to obtain a clear answer from her as to its meaning.

"As I said before," he continued, attempting to keep his increasingly disconcerted state well hidden. "The mechanistic design far exceeds the utility of such a rudimentary tool."

She wiggled the knife back and forth, urging it to go deeper.

"I know."

"Yet you continue your efforts."

There was an audible sigh. "Do you have something better?" she asked, pausing only to glance at him over her shoulder. "I have no desire to spend the next nine hours trapped in this steel box."

Spock was quite certain he had perceived a slight clip at the end of her sentence. Almost as though she had ended it prematurely. Perhaps without adding the final 'with you.' He sensed, in a way that made his insides clench, that his earlier concerns may have been correct, and that her display of irritation was more the result of being forced into his company than of anything else.

He was on the precipice of determining whether questioning her on this subject would prove more detrimental when the knife slipped down the wall with a sharp screech, striking Uhura's hand.

She swore and slammed the instrument onto the ground, raising her hand to her mouth. Spock moved forward swiftly, coming beside her.

"Are you injured?"

She shook her head, turning herself out of his reach and wrapping her lips around the pad of her thumb. Spock shifted closer, kneeling down next to her to examine it.

"See?" she said abruptly, holding out her hand towards his face. "Not injured. Perfectly capable of handling myself."

Spock merely looked at the reddened skin, which the blade had obviously not pierced.

"I did not say otherwise," he said.

She pulled her hand away, standing in one fluid motion and the action suddenly brought her legs level with his eyes. For one, infinitely long moment Spock held very still, watching the dark bare skin of her thighs mere inches from his nose as they shifted and brushed together. And then she gave a swift tug on the hem of her skirt and walked a few paces away.

For several seconds Spock remained kneeling, focusing on his slow, steady breaths and not the way his heart had suddenly tripped its pulse, blinking as though this would rid his mind of the image.

"For accuracy's sake," he said at length, standing very slowly. "The anticipated timeframe of our occupation here is much closer to twelve hours than to nine."

Uhura paused momentarily from where her knife was again scratching the wall to throw him a sideways glare.

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

It made a loud crunching noise when it hit the wall and from one second to the next the thin outline of their only exit disappeared into a sea of tiles. Spock attempted to recall if the emergency occupancy detector had been included among the list of units in need of repair. He ascertained, from the way the door did not automatically reopen, that this was indeed the case.

Uhura exchanged one quick wide-eyed look with him before walking over to the place where she had entered only moments before, a stylus still poised in the hand hovering over her PADD.

"Commander," she said quietly.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

A pause.

"What do we do?"

Spock raised a brow. "Do?"

"Yes, sir," she said, lowering her hands to her side as she turned back around.

"To what specifically are you referring?"

Uhura's head jerked to the side, her steely expression faltering as she processed what had obviously been an unexpected question.

"I mean, how do we get out of here?" she said.

"In my experience," Spock said, shifting his gaze from her pursed lips to where he had left off examining ceiling tiles. "We wait."

There was a very short pause.

"Wait?"

He nodded. "Yes."

There were at present a total of 477 tiles that appeared functionally inadequate. Each one only a centimeter in width. He made a mental note to contact engineering. They would need to map and replaced them individually before the simulator would be up to operational standards again. The recent explosions in the physics lab above them had done a significant amount of damage.

"How long do you expect that will take?" Uhura asked.

She had her arms crossed now, the PADD in her hand tapping against her ribs, and just as Spock took note of another tile so too did he notice her rigid posture and the hint of sarcasm that colored her tone.

"The automated sensors will re-engage at roughly 0700 hours, alerting anyone in the receiving box of our presence, which will most likely occur at 0800 hours during first shift.

There was another pause, and this time when she spoke her voice had lost any sense of amusement, sarcastic or otherwise.

"Commander, there has to be a way out. An emergency fail safe, a hidden switch, something."

"I assure you there is not."

Her hair swung around her back as she moved into his line of sight so that he was forced to leave off searching for the 479th tile and instead gaze down into her wide, brown eyes. "May I suggest we at least _attempt_ to extricate ourselves?"

"The odds of reversing the locking mechanism of this chamber from the inside are less than 0.0046 percent," Spock responded lightly.

"That's twelve hours from now," she said, her voice rising considerably.

He tipped his head. "A crude but conceivable estimation."

Uhura's eyes remained fixed on his. He would have preferred, for the sake of efficiency, that she cease interrupting and allow him to complete his task. He was, however, also far too aware of the jump in his side every time he allowed himself to think about the fact that in all likelihood they would be spending the night here. Alone. Together. Focusing on tangible, repairable tiles that did not cause him considerable stores of control seemed infinitely more manageable.

"So we do nothing," she said.

"That is not my proposal," Spock said. "I merely wish to imply that attempting to find a way out is not the best conceivable use of our time."

There was an odd silence that followed this statement. He could see from the change in Uhura's expression that he had said something discomforting. He also garnered from the way a flush created over her cheeks that it was also perhaps inappropriate, though he knew of no reason why either should be the case.

He opened his mouth to clarify that he had been referring to the completion of tasks that did not require their extrication but she had already shaken her head. She sunk onto the floor against the wall, her PADD propped up against her knees, pointedly not meeting his eye. He would have offered to inform her that the connection of her PADD would be blocked by the inhibitors that lined the room, but given her reaction to his last statement he thought it best to say nothing. She would no doubt be aware of this fact shortly. And in fact as he turned back towards the ceiling her heard her huff, the PADD clinking onto the floor beside her.

Spock would not have believed that those first few minutes would turn out to be the least uncomfortable of their time there. Her silence seemed to scream, beg him to speak, and yet when he opened his mouth, or even risked a glance, she would purposefully turn her head. They had spent months together in silence when she had worked as his teaching assistant, but he could not remember one moment that had felt as this did. This forced distance. And the hours ticked by in slow, painful moments.

As it was the first sound either of them had heard in quite some time, Uhura's stomach growling was enough to rouse Spock from his semi-meditative state. It was a brief disturbance however, a low muffled rumbling, and he was able to quickly recall the calm, sleep-like state with relative ease.

Her stomach growled again however, louder and longer this time, and he opened his eyes a fraction of an inch.

"Sorry," she said when she caught his eyes on her.

She was sitting with her arms circled around her bent knees, staring at the place on the wall where the door should have been. If her continuous fidgeting over the last hour was any indication, it was not a particularly comfortable position.

"You are hungry," he said, opening his eyes fully.

She nodded without looking at him, her fingers rubbing the edge of her stomach absentmindedly. "I didn't have time to eat."

"It is likely to be several hours before you may do so."

There was no replicator in this room. Nothing to distinguish even one wall from another except for a small square outline in the wall at the opposite end from the door. Spock had spent many hours in this room. Many, _many_ hours. 5,184.3 to be precise. He knew every square-foot of its dull grey walls as well as he knew how to operate a tricorder. In fact, given a comparison of the two, this room would be far less difficult to describe.

Uhura shifted, shuffling her legs and repositioning her weight to one side, pulling Spock's attention back to her. She did not appear able to remain still, a fact that struck him as odd. He had never witnessed this behavior in her before. In fact, of all his Terran acquaintances she seemed most apt at the reverse, owing no doubt to her exceptional focus. He had had numerous occasions to witness this in their time together in the phonology lab. One afternoon alone she had sat unmoving for a solid four hours, her hand cupped over her earpiece, listening to old recordings of a language he could not make out.

"There is no need to be anxious," he said, and her head turned sharply.

"I'm not," she said, and then again, more firmly. "I'm not." She looked back in the direction of the door but almost as quickly turned again. "I'm just not used to doing nothing. I feel like I have to move."

"You are quite capable of doing so."

The look she threw him was unmistakably unamused. "That's not what I meant. You're not even, I don't know, concerned that you're wasting valuable time? Hours that could be spent working?"

"I am not wholly inconvenienced."

"Well that makes one of us."

She dropped her hands to her sides, pressing them into the floor so that her arms strained under the force. Her gaze lingered on the tops of her knees and he turned his attention to the far wall. Before he had been stirred by the sounds of her hunger he had been focused on a particular mathematical problem. The proofs of which were still floating around his head. The rudimentary elements necessary to extend distress signal limits in subpar climatic conditions, as in freak carbon blizzards of planetary proportions, was a problem that had been in need of evaluation since the expedition of Thomas Haines to the south region of the Andorian pole. It was also a problem that, until now, Spock had not had the time to submit to proper contemplation, owing to his other, more pressing tasks, and he would have resumed his efforts except that she spoke again.

"What are you working on then?" she asked.

He turned back to her. "I am attempting to assess the possibility of warped-space transmission to reroute signals and bypass dense matter clusters thereby eliminating the need for signal propulsion under stressed conditions."

There was barely a moment's pause before she said, "You too?"

Spock blinked, the elaborate equations disappearing entirely from his mind. Though there appeared no outwards shift in Uhura's facial expression, Spock distinctly perceived that this comment had been made in jest. Before he could ascertain as much, however, she shook her head with a strained smile at the floor.

"Sorry."

This particular human phrase was always a subject of frustration for him and her use of it did little to clarify her earlier statement.

"I do not comprehend how that expression is applicable to this situation as I see no cause for either sympathy or regret, unless you are referring to a desire not to have closed the door upon your arrival."

Uhura lifted her head at this and for a brief moment Spock wondered if this too would turn out to be an unwise statement. His eyes moved back and forth over the sight of her parted lips, her high cheeks, the dim light that streaked across her brown eyes.

"It was a bad joke," she said.

"You were not also contemplating the use of Yurahl's Constant?"

"No, I wasn't. I was contemplating the many, many, _many_ things that I should be doing right now instead of sitting on this freezing cold floor in the basement of the Engineering Department, trapped in a simulation box with the one person who wishes I would just stop talking and let him do his work in peace."

She shook her head again and Spock the noted the slack in her shoulders as she brought her fingers to rub the corners of her eyes.

"You couldn't use Yrahl's Constant anyway," she said after a minute. "It wouldn't account for warped gravitational pull. Not complete useless," she added, pointing to herself.

"You are correct," he said at length. "However that is assuming one is within Class M boundaries."

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

"That was the most embarrassing thing I've ever done."

Uhura had her face buried in her hands as she walked back towards him, her light footsteps echoing off the walls. He could hear the flush of pipes as the system reset and the rat-tat-tat of the small door as it settled back into place.

"The body's biological functions—"

"Don't say biological functions," she said, sharply enough that his mouth snapped shut.

She leaned against the wall opposite him, slumping down onto the floor and dropping both head and hands onto her knees. It had been four hours since they'd managed to lock themselves inside the Solitary Confinement Simulator. Spock was surprised that she had not felt the need to release herself earlier. He was familiar with the amount of water she consumed on a daily basis and given the average human's release cycle—

"Stop thinking about it," she said suddenly, and he looked up to find her staring at him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

"I apologize."

She nodded curtly. Her eyes slid away from him, staring aimlessly in the opposite direction and Spock, recognizing her need for privacy yet unable to grant it, attempted to do the same.

He attempted not to see, for example, from the corner of his eye as she rubbed her hand up and down her arm, nor to connect the action with the fact that it had grown perceptively colder with the increasing hours. He also attempted not to hear the way the fabric of her uniform rustled every time she changed position. Which she did approximately once every 0.4 minutes.

His peripherals, however, were such that he could not help but see her slip her legs out from under her and lay them flat, sinking the bottom of her knees into the ground. But he did not, he assured himself, allow his mind to _focus_ on the way she placed her hands palm down on the floor, then to her lap, then her knees, then finally fold them across her chest as though this configuration would help to keep them still. It seemed to work well enough and a heavy silence eventually settled over the room.

With nothing left to distract him Spock's mind soon began to delve into the many tasks he had allotted for that evening, quickly filtering out those that were unsuited to his current location. He settled, almost by default, on a theoretical problem he had only happened to glean from a cursory inspection of the topic of a student's paper. It dealt primarily with the functionality of distress signals in suboptimal or inhospitable conditions.

The quiet of this room was ideal for such an undertaking, particularly as it was not entirely unrelated to their current circumstances, and the low hum of circuits buzzing around them brought a calming effect, which eased his mind into the task. He had not gotten far, however, when he heard—

"Spock."

He halted mid-equation, a series of mathematical properties fixed in the forefront of his brain. Still, he turned to look at Uhura who was now sitting with her hands completely beneath her. She did not appear to be any more relaxed than she had been before when she said, "Can we talk?" and he could feel a rigidness seize his spine before she finished with, "I need something to distract me."

The question was at once quiet and agitated, and she barely lifted her eyes to him when he asked, relieved, "What would you prefer to discuss?"

"I don't care. Anything."

Spock was hesitant to recommend a topic of conversation. He was not particularly adept at it, and least so with idle chatter, but she supplied a topic after a moment or two of his silence.

"Tell me what horribly specific assignment your students have due tomorrow," she said. "So I can be grateful I'm in here instead of wherever they are."

He blinked. "I was not aware that the level of specificity included in my assignments was—"

"Spock," she said, and there was that look again. It had been some time since he had seen it and that last time had been, though it didn't seem probable, under far less agreeable circumstances.

"They are attempting to decipher a transcript during the 2075 peace summit held between Orion and Remus. I have assign each of them a different attending member and asked that they analyze both the cultural influences of the speaker as well as that of the translator. They are also required to identify any cultural indiscretions made by either party."

"Do they have the original language transcript to compare?"

"No."

She made a strange noise that sounded like a word being sucked in instead of pushed out. "I'm glad I'm not a cadet anymore. I don't think I could handle the workload."

"Based on your previous performance it is unlikely that would be the case."

She tipped her head with a small, almost smile.

"I've got enough to do now just with the Linguistics Department, and Bridge training is proving more difficult that I expected. I—" she stopped, her pupils dilating just before her eyes closed in a grimace.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked, leaning forward.

She tapped a closed-fist against her forehead. "I just remembered what I'm supposed to be doing right now," she said, and then to herself, "I'm never going to hear the end of this."

Spock was not quite accustomed to the swell of emotions that boiled up in him at the sight of Uhura in moments of distress. It seemed an unnecessary companion to his logical and reasonable concern. But even as she shook her head and released a long breath, he had the urge to reach for her, to still her hand where it beat dully against her skull. To calm her with his own calmness.

"When it rains," she said, when he had none of those things, and shrugged, her face drained of some of its color as her fist fell into her lap. "It's an expression," she added, noticing the way his eyes must have glossed over as they sometimes did when he attempted to comprehend the winding labyrinth that was the Terran language. "When it rains it pours."

"Pouring is a descriptive action for a type of liquid transport. It is not necessarily applicable to rain."

"No, it just means that you never seem to have a manageable amount of things on your pl— things to do. You either have so much you can barely keep up or so little that you're stuck doing… well, doing this."

She gestured vaguely around her and only with the most stringent control did he not glance around him for clarification. This did not seem like a logical argument. Even if one, as she had said, could barely keep up with their workload, that meant that it was, in fact, manageable, and therefore the argument's premise was flawed. He wanted to voice this, to ask her how she rationalize this discrepancy, but he did not.

Instead he said, "Large variability is a natural biological occurrence. Similar to the build up and necessary release of—"

"Please don't bring that up again," she said, holding up her hand.

"Very well. I will simply say that perhaps Vulcan's are better equipped to allow for extreme changes in circumstance."

"You mean you're better at adapting."

"It is only logical."

She smiled, a true genuine smile, and yet she rolled her eyes. Spock did not understand the reason for the combined action. From his knowledge, one should preclude the other based on the emotions one intended to convey. Her simultaneous use of the two brought him a renewed sense of confusion and he allowed himself to focus on that, instead of the way his his heart rate increased 16.8 percent at the sight of that smile.

"Tell me something else," she said. "Tell me what it's like on Vulcan with no moon. Or tell me—" a beat. "Yes, tell me that."

"I do not understand the question," Spock said.

She turned her head to look at him, her hair now almost entirely unraveled from its tie from brushing against the wall, following her various movements and tangling in the process.

"I'm sorry," she said, instead of clarifying. "I know I'm talking a lot. It's keeping my mind off all of this."

She waved her hand through the air in an ambiguous manner and Spock again had to force himself not to look around. From the way she was watching him, however, she had recognized his urge to do so.

"I am not averse to conversation," he said.

"We can talk about something else. Something other than Vulcan."

"The subject is immaterial."

"Ok," she said, swinging her legs under her again. "So tell me what it's like."

She stared at him as she reworked her hair back into its tie, her long fingers lacing through the dark strands.

"It is," he searched for the right word. "Quiet."

She lowered her hands, looking as though she wanted to respond but then appeared to think better of it.

"It is not as dark as one might expect," he said when it became apparent she was waiting for him to continue. "Except where there is water, light from the stars is reflected off the sand back into the lower atmosphere creating a soft orange glow against the horizon."

"It sounds beautiful."

He tilted his head. "It is useful."

He saw her pull her lips together over an ill-concealed smile and almost missed her next words.

"I didn't know Vulcan had much water."

"There are two bodies of water on Vulcan," he said. "One that is large enough as to be termed a lake by Terran standards, though neither is a natural phenomenon."

"What's it called?"

"Masu."

She crinkled her nose. "That's just the Vulcan word for water."

"It is a sufficient name."

Her mouth twisted up again, curving at the edges and brightening her eyes, and again Spock felt his throat go dry.

"What does it feel like?" she asked, and he forced himself to maintain eye contact even as her cheeks flushed from the blood supporting that smile, as the light caught across her pupils so that they seemed to shimmer, the only bit of brightness in this dull room.

"Please specify," he said carefully.

"Vulcan," she said, leaning back against the wall and hugging her knees to her chest. "It's a desert planet. I imagine it would be cold at night."

"It is quite cool, with ample breezes that are at times excessive for its inhabitants."

"Which are?"

He frowned. "Which are Vulcans."

"Nothing else?" she asked, half laughing. "No plants, birds? Giant scaly, fire-breathing monsters?"

"You are referring to the mythical beast of Earth's legends."

"Dragons," she confirmed.

"They also do not exist on Vulcan."

"Ok," she said, still smiling, and leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. "Still, it sounds like a wonderful place."

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

Spock watched as Uhura slowly turned, her eyes crossing his for just a second before landing on the now grey wall where there had moments ago been a door.

"Did that just…" she asked, unable to finish the sentence.

He nodded. Illogical. She wasn't looking at him. "It would appear so."

She turned back around just as slowly, her mouth hanging open and an apology written across her face. He waited for her next works, certain of what they would be, but when she did finally speak it was preceded by the ringing sound of her laugher.

Spock blinked.

"I'm sorry," she said through a giggle. "No, I really am, but," she paused. "You _do_ have the key, don't you? You wouldn't have come in here without it."

It was quiet for several long seconds as they stared at one another, Spock frowning, Uhura barely containing a grin, and then Spock said, "I did not anticipate—" but stopped abruptly as she hiccuped out another laugh.

"Lieutenant," he said, far too bristled for his liking. "May I remind you that the door was, and would have remained, open, if not for your arrival."

She folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head. "Considering how little it took to close I'm not sure you have enough evidence to support that statement."

He opened his mouth, thought better of it, shut it again.

"Did you inform anyone of your intentions before you came down here?" he asked.

"I didn't."

"Was there anyone remaining in the control room when you—"

"Nope."

She was still regarding him with what he assumed was an expression of amusement, what with the way her left brow remained elevated and how the corner of her lip kept twitching. Though he certainly did not understand why this should be the case.

"I take it you don't know another way to get out?" she asked, straightforward, with no hint of being inconvenienced in the slightest and he shook his head. "So I should assume I won't be making it home in time for dinner?"

"That is the most probable assumption," he said, and stiffened at the way she chuckled and shook her head. He did not find their situation quite as humorous as she obviously did, maintaining that it was her swift movements as she entered the room that had disturbed the door's tenuous catch system. And now that he thought of it, "What precisely was your reason for seeking me out?" he asked.

She took a breath, unfolding her arms to reveal a small PADD that she waved at him. "I needed your signature on a few things," she said. "It's not important now. It can wait."

"I see no reason to do so. We appear to have several hours available to us."

He reached out to receive the device but stopped as she pressed its face against her chest and took a step back. She had not lost her jovial expression but it was now accompanied by a nervousness Spock did not understand.

"No," she said, shaking her head once. "I'd rather wait for a more opportune moment."

He watched as she placed the device against the wall behind her, conscious as she did so that her uniform rose substantially higher up her legs, and when she turned back around her eyes scanned the walls as she walked slowly around their little room.

Spock's attention remained on the PADD. It was curious to him that she should not find this particular moment to be opportune, and he wondered briefly what exactly she had brought for him to sign. Paperwork did not usually cause unease in officers, and reports or any other findings that did would not have been cast aside in such a mild manner. Nor did Uhura, from all his dealings with her over nearly four years, ever prevaricate.

"Don't these have sensors?" Uhura asked behind him.

She was running her hand along the wall, dragging the tips of her fingers over the tiles and as he turned she bent closer to get a better look.

"That is correct," he said, immediately pulling his gaze (again) away from her legs.

He greatly anticipated the day when someone would inform him why female Starfleet uniforms were designed to be so revealing. He had been witness to many young men of Starfleet, officers and cadets alike, falter under duress of their own biology. Though Spock had never been particularly susceptible himself, he had given very little thought to how proximity and seclusion would factor into its effects. It seemed these parameters made a very large difference indeed.

"So, theoretically, those sensors have a receiver," she said, apparently oblivious to his growing discomfort.

"Also accurate."

She pressed a hand firmly to the wall, her fingers splayed out as wide as they could go, then moved it to another spot, then another.

"What is it you are attempting to do?" he asked when her other hand joined the first.

"Activate the sensors."

He opened his mouth to reply but the words lodged themselves in his throat as she suddenly bent down and began stripping off her shoes. His eyes followed her movements as she grabbed the heel of one boot, then the other, flinging them a few feet to the side and wiggling her toes against the cold floor.

Spock watched mesmerized as she stepped this way and that, experimenting with pressure and speed. At one point running and sliding on her socks, jumping to keep from stumbling when the lack of friction caused her to suddenly stop. She liked this action so much that she repeated it four or five more times.

"You're welcome to join me," she said, using the wall to give her more momentum as she attempted a spin.

"As you previously stated," Spock said, unsticking his jaw from where it had clamped shut, "It is unlikely that any personnel are in the simulation control room and are therefore not monitoring the read-outs."

"That is most probably," she agreed, nodding her head up and down and clasping her hands firmly behind her back. "It is fun though," she added.

The slight frown that Spock had been wearing since she'd begun this odd display deepened significantly. He had know that Uhura was fond of dancing. That she often could be seen running. But he had assumed these activities were in the pursuit of health and exercise. Given, however, the current joy radiating from her merely from having removed her shoes on a slippery surface he was forced to consider alternative explanations.

He was attempting to draw from his limited experience with such actions when he heard the faint sound of humming. She was back to skimming her fingers against the wall, occasionally sliding rather than stepping forward. The melody was almost familiar, the notes sliding off the walls and wrapping themselves around them the way a snake wraps around its prey. He listened to a few bars more before he was compelled by curiosity to interrupt.

"You have sung that before," he said.

The sound immediately stopped. Her head turned, blinking at him like a cat caught beside an empty birdcage, and she nodded.

"Are there words?" he asked.

"Uh," she breathed out a laugh. "Yes."

He waited for her to continue but when she did nothing but stare at him he said, "May I hear them?"

His request though, was not met with the same genial manner that had gripped Uhura the moment the door had shut. She pushed herself off the wall, spinning on one foot to face him and pursed her lips.

"I thought my singing bothered you."

He thought about this. "Disturbing was the word I chose."

She squinted, more of a glare than anything else. "That's not any better."

"I disagree," Spock said lightly, walking around the edge of the room so that he did not have to speak to the back of her as she turned around and continued to experiment with the tiles. "It has been my experience," he said, coming up beside her. "That beauty is always disturbing."

Her hand didn't stop it's petting, but her fingers graced the tiles almost automatically now, unfeeling. Spock watched her glance at him out of the corner of her eyes before she gave a half-lipped grin.

"I'm not sure you'd find these lyrics all that beautiful," she said, a slight edge to the otherwise light hearted words, and one that Spock did not quite know how to place.

"Unfortunately, I am unable to confirm your suspicions without prior knowledge of them," he said, and she let out a breathy laugh, squinting up at the ceiling as though looking for something too small to see.

Her reluctance to sing came as something of a surprise to him. He had often heard her singing. In fact, he found that she existed almost in a perpetual state of song when she thought herself alone. More often than not he would hear her singing to herself in the staff room when he took time to procure himself a meal, or else at her console in the lab.

"I guess it's been long enough," she said at last and he refocused his attention on her. She was regarding him critically. "I wrote it in my first year as a cadet," she said, taking exactly five steps down the wall. "I was trying to cheer up some of my classmates after a particularly difficult exam," she paused, "Your exam."

"The song is about me?" he asked, fascinated that she would have chosen him as the subject for such a haunting piece.

She nodded. "So don't read too much into it," she said, waving her hand around the air. "It was just something to amuse them."

"Understood."

She nodded again, and then, after another deep breath, she began to sing. Spock had difficulty focusing on the words as her voice filled the room but it quickly became apparent, once his mind refocused itself from the way her lips moved up and down over the words, why she had hesitated.

" _Oh, on the Starship Enterprise_

 _There's someone who's in Satan's guise,_

 _Whose devil's ears and devil's eyes_

 _Could rip your heart from you!_ "

It was a strange, fanciful characterization, made more so by the slow, creeping tune. As the song went on though, Uhura began to relax. Her shoulders easing into her movements as she made her steady pace around the room, looking up at him twice will a bashful smile on a particularly evocative line.

" _Oh girls in space, be wary,_

 _Be wary, be wary!_

 _Girls in space, be wary!_

 _We know not what he'll do._ "

By this time Spock had turned his shoulders squarely to face her, not knowing when he had taken those few steps away from the wall, only registering the tingle in his palms as she moved around him, creeping on tip toes and grinning wide. She was now thoroughly enjoying herself, the same freedom of joy he had seen when she'd removed her shoes now centering its focus on him.

He felt her fingers curl around his arm as she leaned around him, looking up at him through a thin-lipped grin and a sharp glint in her eye as the song came to an end. He was unable to suppress the quirk he felt at the corner of his mouth at the sight.

"An interesting composition to be sure," he said, and her expression morphed into bright, flushed cheeks and an almost sheepish smile. "I can assure you, however, that I did, indeed, find it quite beautiful."

It was quieter than he'd intended. The words leaving his mouth before he'd fully judged their connotation.

"Oh," she said, with no trace of her earlier ease. "Thank you."

It was a few seconds more before she broke eye contact, loosening her hold on his arm as though only just realizing she'd been touching him. She straightened, took a step back and ran a hand over an imaginary strand of loose hair over her ear.

They stood in silence for a moment, Spock watching her watch the floor, and then he said. "' _His alien love_?'"

The result was a beautiful new shade of pink that colored her cheeks followed by a bright red hue just before her hands came up, covering her face completely.

"Oh geez," she said through her fingers. "I didn't— I mean. I was just playing into what they wanted. You were," she stopped. "You are," she stopped again and dropped her hands, sliding her open palms down her sides. "What I mean is that a lot of people had crushed on you. Back then."

Spock could still see the pink coloring under her eyes. It brightened the longer he stared.

"Anyway," she said, letting the word draw slowly out as she spun herself around on the heels of her socks.

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

Spock awoke with a start, blinking rapidly into the darkness. He felt cold, colder than he should upon waking in his comfortable apartment, and stiffer, and he registered that he was sitting with his back against a wall, the memory of having fallen asleep in the simulator rushing back to him. Somewhere near him Uhura stirred and he turned his head towards the sound of skin shifting against fabric.

Before the lights had powered off Uhura had been sitting across from him, legs outstretched, arms and ankles crossed. He remembered staring into the darkness, listening to her settle onto the floor, cursing the cold tile against her skin, and turning from to one side to another long after he'd closed his eyes. It was some time later that he'd found sleep, and now as his eyes adjusted to the dim light he saw her silhouette lift onto her elbows, her head tilted back. She had heard it too.

A moment later there was another loud 'clunk' from somewhere above them. Spock scanned the ceiling, trying to establish a direction for the disturbance but the acoustics of their little room were such that it was not possible to obtain a location with any accuracy. For a few minutes they sat like ducks looking up into a rainstorm. Waiting in silence for a third sound to fill the room, but it never came.

"Do you think someone's here?" Uhura asked, her voice soft but clear.

"It is most likely an efficiency unit reengaging on the second floor."

Spock drew his attention away from the ceiling, certain that whatever was causing the noise would not be of use to them, but Uhura continued to stare upwards. Her expression was inscrutable. He could have just as easily guessed hopeful or apprehensive. But after a moment she lay on her back, her hair playing out around her head, a dark pool against the grey.

His eyes had by now fully adjusted to the light and they fell to the curve of her neck where it stretched and arched away from her shoulders. The thought crossed his mind that he had never before seen it so exposed. And the one that followed: that it appeared more admirable from this angle than any other he had witnessed.

"Are you cold?" he asked in an effort to refocus his mind away from the soft brown skin and the strands that cradled it. The only thing sufficient enough to draw his attention had been her eyes, so large as they gazed above her, as though she were looking beyond the tiled ceiling and farther, perhaps, to the stars.

She moved her head side to side, rustling more locks of hair that fell over her shoulder and Spock made himself turn his attention to the wall farthest from her. It was inappropriate to linger on the attributes of one person so long.

"How much longer do you think?" she asked.

"Several hours more at the very least."

She nodded, covering a yawn with the back of her hand. "Well then I'm going to try and get some rest."

She turned away from him then, curling back onto one side, drawing her knees to her chest and tucking her hands under her head like a pillow.

He kept his eyes trained on the far wall and did not look at her again for some time, letting his mind be lulled back towards sleep by the darkness and the sounds of her breathing. It was not until much later, when the breaths became stilted and labored did he turn back to her, requiring no deliberation hearing her shivers before he removed the thin black jacket of his uniform, rising from his seat and draping it over her middle. It was far too short and her legs stuck out at the end.

"You'll be cold," she said, simultaneously pulling it into a better position."

"Yes."

He settled himself back down into the space he'd occupied before, now significantly colder from his short absence and the loss of a layer.

He attempted to still his mind. It required focus to reduce his heart rate, ensuring that all available energy be diverted to keeping his core at a manageable temperature, but it was not so easily done. He spent several minutes attempting simply to unclench his frigid muscles, distracted by the continued sounds of Uhura shivering. It was just as his circulatory system was beginning to respond to his efforts that her voice rose softly from the floor.

"Spock?"

He did not respond. The technique required his full concentration and after a minute had passed he assumed she had fallen asleep. To his surprise, however, he heard her stand. Distantly through the corner of his half-lidded eye he watched her wrap his jacket tightly around her as she moved. She hesitated when she reached him, but seemed undeterred by his lack of response as she knelt beside him, his eyes finally opening to meet hers as she sat close enough that her knees brushed against his leg.

He could not discern her intentions from the way she held his gaze and was taken aback when she reached out for his hand. Without a word she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, lifting his arm around her shoulders and settled herself against his side, fitting into the curve of his ribs. The resultant warmth that spread from her body was more relieving that Spock would have liked to admit.

"Spock, you're freezing," she said, a curious alarm coloring her tone.

"That is inaccurate," he said, controlling with some effort the tremor in his voice. "I am currently maintaining an adaptive body temperature of 32.8° Celsius. What you are attempting to describe is merely the 4.2-degree discrepancy between our anatomies."

He felt her shift, lifting his arm away from where she had rested it as she lifted her head to squint up at him critically. "No. You're freezing."

"I did not mean to imply that I found the temperature pleasurable," he said, forbidding himself from pulling her, and her warmth, back against him. "Rather that, as a poikilothermic organism it is not intolerable."

"Not intolerable is no way to sleep," she said, nestling back into him, her nose brushing against his chest as she found a comfortable position.

For several seconds his arm remained hovering in the air, unsure whether it would be appropriate to let it fall back against her. Their current position was beyond his knowledge of Terran propriety, though he knew precisely where it fell in the Starfleet Academy guidelines. She made the the decision for him, however, reaching around and pulling his arm firmly across her middle. His fingers immediately welcomed the warmth that radiated from her stomach even as she squirmed and mumbled something about 4.2 degrees.

His hand moved gently up and down as deeps breaths began to fill her lungs and her shivering subsided. Spock too felt remarkably warmer. It was, he thought, not unpleasant to have her so close.

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

In the time it took for Spock to assure her that there was, in truth, no alternative way out, no key in their possession, and no means of contacting external personnel for several hours, the temperature of the room had risen considerably. Or was that simply a side effect of the way she was now looking at him? Had been looking at him for the past four minutes and eighteen seconds.

The silence of the room did nothing to detract from Spock's awareness of his rapidly increasing heart rate, and his hands, for all they had nothing to do, longed for a PADD or tricorder, even a beverage would do at this point. He could feel his palms tingling sharply as uncertainty bubbled up in his chest the longer she held his eyes.

She was standing a mere 2.4 feet from him. Well beyond the accepted distance allocated for Terran societal norms, or even that of Starfleet, but it was, he was certain, in no way an acceptable distance for his own peace of mind. An oversight on his part when he had taken those quick steps towards the door as it shut, before recognizing the futility of such an act. The result was that he could hear, distinctly, the soft pull of air as she drew breath, the unforgiving material of her uniform stretching across her breasts as it filled her lungs, and released it in three quiet words.

"So we're alone."

Spock was convinced there was not enough space in the whole of the Federation to prevent him feeling the effects of that stare.

"That is accurate," he said.

It was an effort not to recall, in excruciating detail, exactly what had occurred the last time they had been alone together. How close they had come. He could see by the way her eyes glittered that she remembered all too well.

He was grateful when she blinked, taking a large breath, her tongue sliding over her lips and her eyes slipping from his, shaking herself as though from a dream. She took a step away. Then another. Scanning over the walls of their surroundings with every appearance of great effort.

He was grateful she had looked away first. That it had not been necessary to remind her of their positions, their duty to Starfleet, to themselves. He was grateful because he was no longer certain of his own ability to do so, the effort of bellying the want that rose up unbidden within him, the months of wanting, in that moment had seemed almost too great.

Now, with her back to him, his eyes fell on the loose strands of her dark hair, the curve of her shoulder, and he was able to convince his brain that it was a significantly more manageable view. His lungs, however, were a little slow to believe.

"These sensors in the walls," she said after several minutes. After his breathing was once more under control and his heart at a tolerable resting rate. "What do they record?"

She had walked over to the wall, her arm outstretched, brushing her fingertips against the tiles.

"They are modified life-form sensors," he said, relieved to know his voice, at least, was even. "They record ambient and internal temperature, heart rate, metabolism."

"Neuro pathways?" she said, glancing over her shoulder so that her hair swept across her back.

"They are not equipped to monitor an individual's activities."

"Just their vital signs."

"That is correct."

"Are they monitoring us right now?"

There was something in the way she said this, the way her eyes shifted as she spoke, that struck him as odd, and yet he felt as though he had seen the action before.

"The sensors are active," he said. "Though recording is restricted to running simulations."

She continued to watch him a second or two more, her head turned sideways before her hand slipped away from the wall.

"Oh," she said, raising the PADD that had been tucked under her arm. "I came here to show you this.

The particular phrasing of her words indicated that she had forgotten her original intent, no doubt due to the unexpected locking of the door behind her upon her arrival. The tone, however, did not provide a convincing amount of conviction, and Spock would have liked to understand better the reason for this but she had begun to step towards him, her arm brushing against his as she moved and angled the PADD for him to see over her shoulder.

"This came in earlier this morning but I couldn't find you," she said, her fingers sliding easily over the device. "I wondered if you could make sense of it."

She looked up as Spock carefully slid the PADD from her hands, masking the step he took away by careful examination of the image of successional patterned lines that ran across its face.

"These are readings from a subspace interference spectrum."

"Yes they are," she said, the beginning of a smile forming on her lips. "I was up half the night trying to get the code into a readable format. Do you see it?"

Spock looked closer at the image. There was a distinct pattern in the cross-sections. One he had not personally witnessed before and was altogether intriguing.

"From which faction did these read-outs assimilate?" he asked, turning the screen on its side.

"Guess," she said happily, the screen suddenly a dark blur as she reached across him to zoom onto a particularly dense portion of the graph.

"That is Rigel territory," he said, unaware of when she had once again closed the careful distance between them, but now conscious that her free hand rested on his forearm even as the other fiddled with the image on the screen.

"Yup," she said, seemingly unconscious of her actions or of Spock's growing discomfort as her fingers swept across another patch of lines. "There's another interesting mark here."

But Spock could no longer focus on the PADD in his hands. As interesting as the readings were and as much speculation as they conjured, especially for a scientist such as himself, the smell of her hair hovering just inches beneath his nose and the feeling of her chest pinning his arm in place as she leaned forward enthusiastically were beginning to manifest themselves into unbidden images that were clouding his otherwise sound mind.

He needed to move away from her. Needed to return her PADD and conclude that it was a sufficiently interesting topic for discussion at a later date when they had the means of examining it. That he would look into the possible causes of the anomaly and notify her of his findings when he was next available. What he did not need to do, and at all costs, what he must not do, was to lean into her, close his eyes and let his lips sink into her hair, pressing against her ear, her throat, her lips—

"Strange, isn't it?" she said, glancing up too quickly. So rapidly that it was impossible for Spock to pretend his focus had been on anything but her.

He wished she wouldn't look at him that way. He wished her eyes hadn't gone black, dilating, those dark pools already too close, he wished she would look away. And then, just as suddenly he wished they would stay fixed on his, because in the next second they had traveled down to his lips, trailing his neck as he swallowed. Audibly.

He could say nothing. The crippling want that had surrounded them returned full force and now there was not the merciful distance of 2.4 feet to separate them. There was not even an inch. Nothing to keep him from leaning down even as she lifted her head, catching his eyes only in the briefest second before, Surak help him, they closed and his lips brushed against hers, fleeting and inconceivably soft.

He felt her hands on his chest when the first kiss became a second, sliding up his neck, her fingers grazing the short hairs that laced his ears. She was so warm. Her mouth peppered his skin with sweet, stolen breaths and he felt his arm reaching out, circling her slender waist, the PADD awkwardly pressed against her side. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as his hand slid slowly up the curve of her spine, tangling in the wisps of her hair.

When her tongue slid into his open, waiting mouth he pulled her closer still, the space between them unbearable after months, years, of longing to taste her. To know how her body felt pressed against his. A sudden and unbidden hatred of Starfleet for administering such dense and unnecessary uniforms rippled through him. It was not enough. He wanted more of her.

Apparently — incredibly, unbelievably! — It was not enough for her either for he felt her slowly press him backwards, edging him against the wall that had moments ago seemed miles away. The leverage that it provided did not go unnoticed and she gripped him tighter as his leg skimmed along her inner thigh, shifting her skirt higher and higher and she moaned into his mouth.

The sound jerked him back to reality.

His eyes flew open, sharp awareness flooding through him and all at once the hands on her waist were pushing her away. Just a few inches, just enough to clear his head. She tried to move forward again but he held her still and they stared at one another, panting into the stillness around them.

"I am sorry," he said, barely able to look at her, fixing his eyes instead on the emblem of her uniform but unable to keep from seeing the way her breasts heaved up and down beneath it.

"So am I," she said, breathless. "Sorry we didn't do that months ago."

"I have behaved irrationally and without forethought to the repercussions of my actions."

"I know," she said, snaking her hands around his elbows and pulling herself back against him. "Do it again."

The words were whispered into his neck, just below his ear and the cool, moist air clung to his skin like a balm as he kissed her.

.

.

.

And then the door shut.

She had not heard it, the sound of a cargo door opening on the street, but he had. She did not have his Vulcan hearing. It was finally morning.

Uhura lay across his lap, her legs curled against his thigh, her hands tucked beneath her chin. Her hair, which had splayed out across his chest as she slept, had now fallen across her shoulder, clinging to the unforgiving material of her uniform. More than once during the night Spock had had the urge to touch it. To run his hands over it and lace the soft strands between his fingers. He had not, or course. To do so would be an unpardonable breach in their understanding.

From his vantage point he could barely see the tips of her eyelashes. Not a particularly informative feature, but he was conscious of when she woke, her easy breaths halting, and the small involuntary jump when the harsh simulator lights had flickered on. He felt her shift, her hand brushing against his pant leg once, twice, and then she stiffened. She pulled her hand away and lifted her head a fraction of an inch. Her eyes landed on where his arm still rested against her side and he quickly removed it.

She sat up slowly, blinking at him in her tired state, his jacket falling from her shoulders. Their current position seemed to reach all of her senses at once, for her eyes suddenly went wide.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" she trailed off, following her own movements as her hand waved over his lap.

"That is quite alright," he said. "I greatly appreciated the warmth."

It was, as statements go, as simultaneously accurate and erroneous as he could have made.

She pushed herself up further, edging away from him, her eyes flitting back and forth between his chest and face. "Did you sleep?" she asked.

"It was unnecessary."

She gave him a look that because of the way her body moved as she slid off him he was quite unable to focus on, let alone comprehend, and stood. She handed him his jacket, which was still warm in his hands as he attempted to follow suit but was immediately stopped by the jelly-like feelings in his legs.

"What's wrong?" she asked, pulling her hair back into its fastening.

Spock frowned at his own feet. "I believe there has been sufficient compression of nerves as to render temporary paralysis of my leg."

Uhura looked down. "Your foot fell asleep?"

"That is a wholly inaccurate description."

The corners of her eyes crinkled and quite unexpectedly, she laughed. The sound of it reverberated around them, warm and light as it bounced off the walls. He watched as she shook her head and tried to keep from smiling, completely failing in the attempt.

"I'm sorry. I think being trapped in here is causing serious delirium."

"It is fortunate that we have very little time left. It would be prudent for you to see medical."

"Here," she said, smiling and reaching out both her hands. He looked back and forth between her outstretched palms and then to her face. "It'll help if you stand up."

Allowing that this was true Spock attempted to stand without her assistance. He was caught somewhat off guard when she ignored this, tucking her arm under his and pulling him up with a swift tug. The disconnect between his nerves and the weight on his legs, however, cost him momentary unbalance and he stumbled forwards.

They were suddenly much closer than he hand intended.

Spock saw no way of correcting this for the moment however, as his brain was as of yet unaware that his feet even existed, let alone that it could move them, and he allowed her to aid him in his balance.

"You could have woken me up, you know," she said, her voice much lower than it had been a moment ago.

She was staring straight ahead to his chest. He could feel her fingers shift against his uniform, her thumb running along the sleeve. He hadn't removed his hands either from where they had gripped her shoulders for support. She glanced quickly at him and then back down and he sensed there was something else she wanted to say.

She didn't though, only stood there staring at the emblem on his chest, but he knew somehow, by the tightness of her fingers and the steady elevation of her heartbeat that in those few short seconds, something had changed. And when her hand relaxed, sliding down his arm to brush against the inside of his palm he was proven right.

Her hand was as warm as the rest of her. He felt the distinct tingle in his fingertips as she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She said his name, barely above a whisper and he felt his mouth go dry. He waited, silently willing her not to say anything more so that he would not be forced to respond in the way he must respond. But she didn't. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, eyes closed. She was so close. Closer than he had come to anyone in a very, very long time and he felt himself being pulled forwards until his forehead rested against hers. He was incapable of knowing if he had leaned or if she had pulled him. His nose brushed against her, sending an instant chill through the topmost lawyer of his skin so that the urge to press himself further into her fragile frame became almost painful.

It was an effort to pull back, to break their contact and restore his ability to focus on anything but the way her lips parted as she looked at him. He had to fill his lungs completely just to utter, in the smallest voice, "Nyota."

It was, and would always be, a hollow, utterly inadequate use of her name.

She pulled back too, forcing him to look her in the eye. "I can't let you ignore this," she said.

His brow creased, that uneasy feeling of confusion bubbling in his stomach. "I am hardly—" he tried again. "I am simply attempting to—"

But she shook her head. "No," she said. "This."

She dropped her free hand, the only not still pressed into his, so that it rested against his side where his heart beat irrationally quicker for the contact.

"Spock," she said, a thin, shaky breath. A question.

He stepped back, his legs protesting in pins and needles, her hands slipping from his body, her expression growing harder the farther he went. He stopped only when the distance between them was such that he could not simply reach out and draw her back.

"I cannot."

Some thirty yards from their enclosure came the sound of metal scratching along a stone foundation. Someone was moving machinery, or else a transport shuttle was lowering its loading bay. At any rate it meant that the work day had begun. Personnel were now walking about them and very soon someone would register that the simulator had been receiving transmissions all night.

"Why?"

The small question escaped her mouth as though shoved by a breath past gritted teeth, but it was as though she didn't want to hear his answer because she turned just as he had opened his mouth. She stalked to the wall where she knew the door to be, concealed as it was amid the tiles. She raised her fist, rapidly beating the wall, paused, listened, and then pounded again. Harder.

Spock made a move towards her, his leg sending a jolt of discomfort screaming up through his calfs, but she shrank from him with such revulsion that he immediately stilled. He had never before seen such an expression cross her face.

For a third time she rapped at the door, her movements becoming erratic, and finally they heard the muffled sounds of the activation code. Uhura stepped back, conscious not to move closer to where Spock still stood, and then the door opened with a hiss, a sigh of relief, and a sandy-haired cadet stuck his head inside.

"Commander," he said, heaving the door open further and looking around. "Uhura. Are you alright?"

"Fine," Uhura said curtly. "Excuse me."

The cadet nodded mutely, pressing himself against the wall as she brushed passed him without so much as a thank you, and Spock had only the image of her dark hair swinging behind her as she moved out of sight, her PADD forgotten on the floor.

.

.

.

And then…

Uhura's arm shot out, her fingers barely catching the edge of the door as it attempted to swing shut. The weight of it pulled her backwards and Spock's immediate response was to reach out to steady her, an action he was glad to have suppressed when she merely hopped backwards a few steps before regaining her balance.

"Apologies, Commander," she said, heaving the door forwards again and pressing it into the catch on the adjoining wall. "I need your signature on a few security clearance items and Henry asked that I bring you this. Apparently that hair-trigger's faulty."

She nodded to the door, holding out the round, palm-sized key necessary for unlocking it from the inside.

"Thank you, Lieutenant."

She nodded, swiftly and succinctly, and it did not slip his notice that she ensured their hands did not touch when he took the item from her. Nor did she meet his eye when she handed him the PADD from under her arm. These actions were far enough out of character that he found his own gaze lingering on her for several seconds before turning his focus to the screen in his hands.

"You are requesting a transfer to engineering?" he said, having skimmed the first several lines of the forms.

"Yes," she said. He felt the muscles tighten in his shoulders as he turned them square to hers. "I think it's for the best."

Spock studied her. Her chin was raised, her lips forming a thin line. It was clear, even to him, that she did not wish to discuss the topic. However, his mind could not be persuaded to consider any other course of action.

"Your knowledge of Federation languages," he began. "Has set you apart from any graduate the Academy has ever known. It is unparalleled by any officer in Starfleet. You are an invaluable asset to the Phonology Department."

What he did not say, what he could not say, was how invaluable she had become to him.

"So I'll be an invaluable asset for acoustics," she said, not unkindly, though there was a hard finality to her words.

His eyes scanned her face but could find no indicators for why she had chosen this action. He bent his head to finish reading the numerous documents before him, and, if he were honest, to give himself time to process her request. It took him less than three minutes to read the forms and her steady gaze was not lost on him. When he raised his head again a soft, minuscule sheen had coated her eyes. It was quickly blinked away, lasting no more than a second, the deep brown canvas of her eyes wiped clean and hardened over.

She waited for him.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked, when he did not move.

"Lieutenant," he began. "I do not wish to end our discussion in that way."

She let out a huffed breath, her lips curling into something that would have been a smile if smiles here harsh and completely without joy.

"We weren't having a discussion, Commander, so there's no need to continue it."

"Nyota," he began, but she heaved a heavy sigh, a hollow laugh.

"Please don't," she said.

He stared at her, the lines that had formed around her eyes, the way the muscles tensed in her arms. She turned her face away from his, her head shaking side to side as she ran her tongue over her teeth.

"I do not understand," he said, and his voice was so low that he was not convinced she had heard him until after several second had passed and she replied, "No. But I do."

"You've made your position very clear," she said, her voice tight and unnatural. "And now I'm making mine."

He was aware of the tension that had overcome her features, small though it was, keeping them under rigid control. It pained him to see her thus, knowing that he was the cause. She was not Vulcan. She could not exist as he did, in a perpetual state of deceptive control, denying her emotions even as they filled her lungs with every breath. She required actions, the touch of a hand, the hint of a smile, and she was tired of waiting. Perhaps she was no longer capable of doing to.

His thoughts were no less conflicting than they had been weeks ago. That day when he had said too much, gone too far, and she had looked at him in such a way. They had not come back from that. From his assertion that nothing could exist between them beyond the respect and admiration due any person of her quality. It would be illogical to pursue anything beyond this. And since that day he had seen less of her, had shared no private moment nor heard her laughter, but at least she had been there. Walking the same corridors, grabbing coffee from the break room, tutoring students and arguing with professors. Occupying every corner of his small world. It had been a small comfort. An illusion. One that was now threatened by the PADD in his hand.

"I entreat you to give this decision more thought," he said, and watched as she bit the inside of her lip, her eyes rising to the ceiling and Spock looked up in confusion. He looked back again when he heard a breathy laugh, just in time to see her finger graze beneath her eye.

"Have _you_ given it any more thought?" she asked.

He could not pretend he did not understand her question. He could not lie. "Yes."

"A sufficient amount?"

He frowned. He could not understand her strange tone but was altogether conscious of the direction they were heading, and frantically tried to allay his whirling mind. He had spent, to date, 27.9 hours devoted to this matter alone. And this did not include the frequent and incessant moments in which the topic had flitted through his conscious at all hours of the day and night, disturbing his work and sleep.

"No."

"Then your answer hasn't changed."

He hesitated. "It has not."

"And therefore we have nothing to discuss."

"Nyota," he tried again, but she shook her head.

"Please just sign it."

He knew that nothing he could say would persuade her. He had drawn himself into a corner, asked too much of her, and now he was left facing the harsh reality of what that meant. He knew this without thought to how he knew this. He had seen, in his mind's eye, the outcome of his inability to act. Had seen the look on her face, the warmth leave her eyes, the hardness take over, and knew he had only two choices.

He looked down at the PADD still in his hand, at the forms that said he would no longer be seeing her in the walls between classed. Would no longer get messages about students or hear her ranting about how useless the universal translator codes were every time he passed the TA room. And then he looked back to where she was standing in front of him, there with her dark eyes, her thin pursed lips.

"I do not wish to," he said.

He saw her head fall to the side, her mouth part to form words that didn't come and then the inhale of breath as he stepped into her. She jumped as his hand brushed against her cheek, but not before his fingers slid into her hair so that when she pulled back it was easy enough to lean in just a little further and press his lips to hers.

It was quick, much quicker than he would have liked, but he was not unaware of the many flaws in his action.

She was completely still when he drew back the small distance required to pull air into his lungs. He did not open his eyes. He didn't want to see her reaction. It had been an illogical impulse, born from an overactive mind and one he was sure to regret, but even so, he did not want to release this moment before he had too. Her nose brushed against his as she opened her mouth to speak and his stomach felt heavy in anticipation.

"I can't believe you just did that," she said, her words mixing with the warm air against his lips.

He hesitated. "Your actions over the past several months," he began. "Have frequently demonstrated that such an action would not be discouraged. Apart from today," he added, and again his stomach was like a sinking rock. "It was statistically sound."

Illogically, impossibly, he felt her smile against his cheek. He lean back, the mix of curiosity and hope enough to risk the venture but she took his head in her hands and forced him to still, drawing his lips apart for a second kiss and then a third as she whispered, "Not yet."

He could not describe the feeling that came over him, the feeling of wanting, illogically, that which he already had. But it was undeniable, the more she held him, the longer she kissed him, the more he wished to hold and be kissed. When she did finally sink back onto her heels, her hands slipping down his chest, the air between them hit him like a douse of cold water.

"Okay," she breathed, staring down at where her fingers smoothed over the wrinkles she had made in his uniform. "Now you can remember all the reasons we shouldn't do this. I just wanted one more kiss before you came to your senses."

It was possible, that of all the moment they had shared, she had never before appeared so lovely as she did then, pressed against his chest, her head bent, her cheeks flushed with desire.

His thumb swept across her lips and they parted as she raised her face to look at him, those large, brown eyes somehow even more appealing for the confusion reflected in them, and then the light, the flash, as he said, "I do not wish to."

The PADD fell to the floor with a clatter when they moved, and the door, cumbersome and unmanageable as it was, jostled from its catch as their bodies slammed against the wall.

And then the door shut.


End file.
